Crescendo
by nickersoncrazy
Summary: Nancy finds herself investigating a case of serial murder that has stormed the music industry. Complications arise when she falls in love with a music producer even when she can't strike him off her suspects list. Chapter 1 posted.
1. Chapter 1

Whoa. Been a while, hasn't it? :)

I'm really, really nervous about posting this story. I don't know why, I just am. Maybe because it's been so long and all. I know it's a little AU, but give it a chance, will ya? :)

Reviews would be wonderful. Hope you like it!

**If music be the food of love, play on.**

-**Shakespeare **

* * *

Melinda Meadows longed for stardom. She'd been born for it. She dreamed often of stepping out of her home and having a horde of paparazzi bombard her with pointless questions and blinding her with their prying cameras. She wanted the opportunity to flash her pretty smile at them when the mood struck, and swear at them for meddling with her personal—but she actually wanted the whole world to know—affairs at other bitchier times. She wanted to be the diva that every woman secretly wished she was, even if they openly cursed and slandered and disapproved.

Everyone turns to hypocrisy when they don't get what they want, she thought as she drove back home on a chilly night. It was only human nature to bring down someone who'd achieved what they couldn't. The world sure had its share of pretenders. And cheaters.

Like her stupid ex-boyfriend.

But as the wind whipped through her long blonde hair, she promised herself she wouldn't think of him. Couldn't think of him. She had happier things to think about, things to celebrate about.

She was on her way to becoming a real, professional singer. Okay, things weren't completely official yet, but she just had that _feeling_. Her instincts were telling her that soon she could smile at and curse the media just as she fancied. And she sure as hell was going to trust her instincts from now on.

She'd ignored the gut-feeling that Josh was cheating on her and look where that had got her.

It hurt, she admitted as she made a turn. The roads were fairly empty, and the air felt good on her skin. It had hurt badly when she'd found Josh and the ditzy cheerleader in a teensy-weensy excuse for a skirt making out. And the worst part was she'd loved the jerk. But she wasn't going to care anymore. Or was going to try not to. She'd find someone new. The high school football team didn't consist of _just _him.

But since the pain had been there anyway, she'd decided to do what she did best. Put it in a song. And it had turned out to be pretty damn good. Inspiration had struck, and she'd recorded a demo in her little home-studio.

I'm a little like Taylor Swift, she thought smiling a little. Writing about the losers who seemed sweet and adorable at first but then just go and break your heart without a second thought. But that didn't necessarily mean that her lyrics had to be as sweet as Taylor's.

It's all good now though, she thought. She'd dropped off the demo at LVN Records, and had been lucky to catch a glimpse of the label's music producer during her little visit. He'd smiled and listened to her when she rambled on about how much she loved to sing. And he'd promised to listen to it. _And _he was so, _so _heart-stoppingly cute. A little too old for her, but she'd been blushing like a fool when he'd patted her on the back and said that not many kids would have the guts to just drop by a professional recording label. Her seventeen-year-old heart had been beating like crazy.

Maybe I should write a song about him, she thought, giggling. _Then _my lyrics can be bittersweet, like Taylor's.

Now she was going home to tell her parents. They'd be happy for her, she knew. They'd listened to her sing since she was a little girl, and if she wanted to be a singer, they'd want it to.

Drumming her fingers against the steering wheel at a red signal, she began to daydream. She wouldn't need Josh. To hell with him. She wouldn't want to cry when she saw him in the hall at school. He'd hear her song on the radio in the days to come, and be sorry. Meanwhile, she'd be happy. She and her music. When the signal turned green, she drove on.

Melinda had too many stars in her eyes to see the black car that had been tailing her the whole drive.

--

Nancy Drew sat at her obsessively-organized desk, her brows knit together as her fingers moved expertly over her keyboard. Her eyes remained fixed on her monitor and she typed mechanically, and the blue in them was set off by the dark shadows underneath. After all, she had had about barely twenty hours of sleep over that last ten days, all in all. When Chicago had been sleeping, she'd had to rack her brains until she was sure they would become malfunctional due to incessant overuse. But she couldn't afford to stop even then. Not when some crazy serial thief was ransacking the homes of the city's ultra-rich for purposes not consistent with Robbin Hood's.

So she'd encountered a car crash, a few threats that she'd written off nonchalantly, some sundry, futile attempts to endanger her life, and a bloody—and exciting, she admitted—showdown with her criminal, all in less than two weeks. Then she'd kicked his kick-deserving butt and handed him over to the cops. The last part had been her favourite.

She lived an exciting life.

Now she was caseless, but had to write the follow-up report that the court required. She hated the damn paperwork. But it had to be done, so she crankily wrote as fast as she could.

Then she'd go home, wonderful, glorious home. And crawl into her warm, soft bed and sleep for forty hours. She sighed happily at the thought.

Being a private investigator did have its disadvantages. But she loved her job. She wholeheartedly loved the sleepless nights, the dangers of the job, and the rush of adrenaline. And of course, the butt-kicking. She loved it so much that her agency, Drew Investigation Inc. had resulted. She couldn't imagine doing anything else for a living, or for entertainment for that matter.

"And _this_," Jolting, Nancy heard a familiar, female, bubbly voice say, "is where she works. She made this herself, you know."

"Ah, _oui_," said another differently-accented unfamiliar voice. "It eez very pretty."

"_Andre!" _said the first voice, sounding exasperated. "Offices aren't pretty. They're, you know, boring 'cause they're supposed to be."

"But _mon chéri_, you are very pretty."

Nancy could just about envision Bess and what she supposed was her new boyfriend, locking lips outside her office, and had a brief flash of Pepé Le Pew of the Looney Tunes. She hurried to interrupt them before they could get carried away. It _was _an office, after all.

"Ahem."

When they continued to kiss with apparent urgency, she felt uncomfortable and shuffled her feet. The other PIs of her agency stared at her from their workstations with eyes full of curiosity. And, well, with the delighted hope for some early morning entertainment. Some of them didn't get out much, sadly.

"Bess?" Nancy tried again.

The only response she got was a frenzied murmur. When Bess caught a handful of French Lover's shirt in her fist, Nancy knew she had to cut in.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she shouted. "All right, you two hormonal teenagers, cut it out!"

When they broke apart, breathless, Nancy was sure she heard a few cheers from their spectators. "Um, let's go inside, okay?"

"Aw, Drew," a voice piped up from the audience. Tim Stuart was eighteen and the baby of the agency. He was red-faced, chubby and cute in a five-year-old-cute kind of way. He also had a sharp mind, an eye for detail, guts, and wanted to be like PI Nancy Drew when he grew up. "You couldn't let them be for _ten _minutes?"

"You, Tim, are sick," she shot back but not without some affection, and swung around.

"You're no fun," Bess complained, pouting, but followed Nancy into her office. Then she tugged on French Lover's arm and looked at him, beaming with obvious adoration. "This is Andre Laurent. We're kind of going out."

"Heh. No kidding." French Lover sure was a looker. _Go Bess_, she thought. If she could whistle, she would have.

"Nancy Drew," he said, smiling. "I am so pleased to meet you. Your office eez so pretty. No," he said, remembering. "No, no, _je suis désolé_, it is boring."

What a sweetheart. Nancy took the hand he offered and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Andre."

Bess had gone for the exotic this time, Nancy noted. Andre had the kind of face that had to have been sculpted by God's very own miraculous hand.

"My true love," he said, looking at Bess like a puppy, "said you are a detective? Like on television?"

She didn't know what shows they had in France, but she nodded. "Uh, yeah, why not?" she said, smiling.

"We were in the neighbourhood," Bess said, with a victorious grin. "Thought we'd say hi."

_Oh, yeah_. Nancy returned her grin knowingly. To say hi and to show _off your super-sexy boyfriend_.

"We'd better go, and finish off what we were prohibited from doing outside your office," Bess said, and grinned wickedly. "Call me when you're free. See ya, Nan."

"I hope to see you again," Andre said utterly charmingly, and kissed Nancy's hand. At that moment she decided that if Bess ever dumped him, she was grabbing him first chance she had.

Just before they swung out, Nancy grabbed Bess' arm, and pulled her back. "Damn you, Bess," she said with apparent admiration. "Where'd you find him?"

"You just gotta look hard, honey," she said elusively and stuck her nose up in the air.

"Does he kiss as awesome as he looks he does?"

"Better." Bess flipped her strawberry-blond hair over her shoulder and laughed. "Way better."

--

With his headphones on, Ned Nickerson casually propped his feet up on the little table that stood outside the recording room. The purpose of the table was to hold little treats to meet the voracious appetite he was famous for. But now all it held was air. He'd have to fix that soon.

First he had a song to produce.

He fiddled with the appropriate controls at the mixing console at all the necessary times. Looking through the glass and into the recording room he saw what he predicted to be the next big thing.

Justin Ryder was currently recording his second single. His first had made waves with the locals in Illinois, earning him fansites and the occasional interview on television. He was hugely introverted though, and even more hugely talented. With the second release he was striving to transcend the state frontier and was looking for national recognition.

Ned was damn sure he'd get what he was aspiring for, if not more.

They'd worked out the details. The basic vocal recording would span over three days. If they were willing to forego sleep, maybe two. Then the instrumental recording would take a day or so, and be produced by Ned's co-worker and best friend, Bill Foster. Then they'd leave it to the technical experts to wave their magic wand. Then to ensure marketability, they'd need the press and publicity.

Ned obviously had a great sense of hearing, but his olfactory senses didn't totally suck. When the scent hit him and assaulted his brain, he couldn't take it anymore. He pushed a button on the panel. "Let's cut it there, Ryder. Something smells like food."

Platinum record or not, a man's gotta eat.

It was around eleven-thirty at night. Most of the studio's employees had called it a day, but some of them preferred working long hours, and some just preferred working at night. Late night creativity. Ned wasn't sure which category included him.

Justin Ryder followed Ned who followed his nose which lead them to the Junction. The Junction was the point that had separate recording rooms and isolation booths on all four sides. It was where the staff met to be either congratulated or yelled at by the Chief. Mostly yelled at. He didn't really approve of the casual atmosphere. But no one took him too seriously, which to him was annoyance, and to everyone who worked for him, fun.

Sure enough there stood Sally Devon, surrounded by a pack of hungry late night workers.

"Krispy Kremes?" Ned asked over the chattering of the donut-ravishers, and pushed his way through.

"You know me," she replied, smiling.

He managed to grab a couple of donuts, handed one to Justin.

"Oh, no, thanks."

He shrugged and took a huge bite. Personally, he didn't understand how anyone could refuse one. "I love you, Sally."

"You'll love me more when you hear I've got another box. Just for you," she added in a low voice.

He could almost see the halo over her head. The kind-hearted head director often took it upon herself to feed her hungry late-night musicians. She was close to fifty, and sort of the matron of the studio.

"If you were younger," he said between bites, "I'd fall on my knees and beg you to marry me. Not that you're old or anything," he added hastily, catching the gleam in her eye.

An hour or so later, after almost everyone else was sane enough to go home and catch some sleep, Ned decided to pack things up. He'd listened to the demo that kid had dropped off earlier. He caught a few traces of AutoTune in its making, but it was good. A few sharps and flats in the singing but it wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed by some formal training. And she was passionate about it. That was a huge plus. He decided he'd call her—Melinda?—and get her to record professionally. If he still thought she had the stuff, maybe he'd consider getting her signed with the label.

At around one, he started for home.

--

Alan Bolton slept lightly. He couldn't afford to otherwise, given the nature of his job. Being an officer with the Chicago PD meant that criminals had the power to drag him out of bed even at three in the morning. Stupid criminals had no sense of time.

He got the call from Dispatch, grabbed his police issue and tried to get out of bed at quietly as possible, not wanting to wake his wife. But George Fayne-Bolton hadn't been a heavy sleeper since she'd married him.

"Alan?" she said sleepily.

"I got a case," he said softly, as he dressed as quickly as he could. "Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep."

Suddenly she was wide awake. "Are you gonna be okay?" She tried not to let the dread and fear show.

"Yeah. Yeah." He tried to smile, and bent to kiss her. "I think I'll call Nancy in on this one."

"Oh. Make sure neither of you do some stupid, heroic thing, okay?"

"Okay." He gave her one more kiss before leaving.

When he left, George lay back in bed and closed her eyes. She said a prayer, but she knew she wouldn't sleep.

--

Nancy wanted to kill the phone when it rang. Wanted it to have a slow, vicious, torturous death. She'd barely had eight hours of sleep of her desired forty.

"Hello?" she almost snarled.

"Yo, Drew."

"Alan, George is my friend. I know we used to date in high school but I'm not going to have an affair with you."

"Haha. Aren't you just non-bitchy? Listen," he said before she could retort. "I have a murder. You want in?"

It didn't take her more than two seconds. "Where do you want me to be?" she asked, already dragging on clothes.

--

When she reached the site of crime, she saw the police vehicles, and the yellow tape cordoning off any curious speculators. Not that there were any at three-fifteen.

She saw Alan standing with the people she supposed were the ones who'd called in the crime. When he caught her eye, he let another officer take over the interrogation and went to meet her.

"Do we have an identification?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Almost positive that the victim is Justin Ryder. We've got officers who've gone to inform next-of-kin."

"Justin Ryder? The singer?"

"Yep."

"Great. Soon we'll have the media here, wanting to sink their fangs into anything they can get."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Is this your case, Bolton?"

"Yeah," he said, looking around at the buzz of activity. "Got a new partner. Rookie, actually. Let me find her." He searched among the officers and hospital authorities to spot his partner. When he did, he waved to her and signalled her to come.

Nancy knew his old partner, and had worked with him. When she saw the new one, she realized she knew this one as well. As if murder wasn't depressing enough.

"Oh, crap."


	2. Chapter 2

Hi, here's chapter 2. Please let me know what you think :)

And I know that some of you (those who've subscribed, that is) didn't get the alert when I posted this story. I emailed the site, and hope that has been rectified now.

Enjoy!

* * *

Chicago woke to the glorious smell of caffeine, the pretty scents of spring, and to the nasty stench of cold-blooded murder. By four a.m, the media had nipped their sharp, inquisitive teeth into every minute detail that they had painstakingly gleaned. Of course they then had to embellish the truth with the creative and fancy trimmings that would guarantee viewers and boost the TRPs.

Some fans had shed their tears, and assured Kleenex of a supernormal profit, while some others just got a kick out of the entertainment factor. And then there were those who just didn't give a damn.

It was a nice sight, the sun rising. It was sort of a cue for the birds to start talking in their chirpy language, for the colourful flowers to bloom into full grandeur, for the dewy grass to exude its fresh fragrance. Spring had arrived, and everything looked blissfully pristine.

But Nancy couldn't enjoy it just yet. She'd recorded the statements from the middle-aged couple who'd called the murder in after they had recovered from the terrible shock and been sick a few times. It was never easy to see a body, to see someone whose right to live had been violated, uncalled for. Murder was never called for. Now she would fight for a dead man, would stand for him and see that his killer was put in a cage before she was done.

As she drove to the PD, she looked out at the start of a new season. But no, she couldn't enjoy it yet.

Then again, Ryder would never enjoy anything again.

"Autopsy report?" she began when she saw Alan Bolton in his little office.

"Got it," he replied promptly. His blond head looked like a bird's nest, his eyes showed signs of fatigue. "I had to harass the coroner to get his sleepy butt out of bed but I've got the preliminary report."

Nancy sat down on a nearby chair. "Drugged, wasn't he?"

"You guessed it. Not cause of death, but it was a mean. The victim suffered visible lacerations on the face and neck. Other minor bruises on the chest. The facial and torso injuries couldn't have lead to his death, but coupled with the drug dosage, it was enough to knock him out cold for some time."

"Didn't even give him a chance to fight back."

"Murderers aren't generally considerate. Anyway, they found some skin under the victim's fingernails. Hasn't been tested yet, but that's something. A .38 to the heart did him. "

It was hard, so hard not to feel for a victim, whether known or not. But Nancy knew better than that. The entire process of investigation went smoother when there was no emotion involved. When the job was just essentially that—a job. "He was twenty-two, Bolton. Dammit."

"I know. He wasn't married. Small blessing. Somehow it's less difficult when there isn't a wife whose heart you're going to break."

"Not easy enough though."

"It'll never be. You and I know that." He got up from behind his desk, gathered some papers. "Let's go make it easier."

--

LVN Records functioned that day despite the loss. The show must go on and all. People mostly came in because it sure as hell was easier working than having their unoccupied minds plagued by images of Ryder covered in blood and God knew what else. They worked, trying as hard as they could to ignore the undercurrents of tension and distress. And more than anything else, bone-chilling fear. For some, heartbreak.

He'd been a good guy.

Everything was in stark contrast to normality. It was such a haze, such an unsettling haze, and nobody knew what was happening. That was the worst part. The not knowing. The only information they had was what was flashing on the huge television screen, which was turned down to nearly mute. The images that swept across the screen were horrifying enough.

Someone had killed one of their own.

Ned scrubbed a hand over the stubble he'd been too shocked to bother about that morning. He was in his office—or what he liked to call an office. There were papers, files, label documents all strewn over his desk. _Then_ there were headphones, discs, mobile recording apparatus, and the occasional plectrum strewn _over_ the papers, files and documents. Like a pig sty. He liked it just that way.

He'd just paid his condolences on the phone to Ryder's family. He'd heard his friend's mother weep inconsolably, heartbreakingly. She'd been obviously shattered when she'd told him how her baby boy had always been such a nice, loving child. Always straight A's through school. Didn't give her an iota of trouble, ever. It was essentially babbling, but she couldn't stop. She told him how he'd missed prom because she'd been in sick in the hospital. Her little boy. He wasn't coming back, never coming back.

Her words kept echoing in Ned's mind, the pain, the sorrow in them. What were you supposed to say to a grieving mother? And what difference would it make? Her child was still dead. Murdered, even worse.

But he'd told her to play Ryder's songs. Maybe that would be marginally comforting. He didn't know.

He needed to get out, get some fresh air. Death was suffocating. He took the elevator down, strode out of the lobby and out of the establishment. The damn press was there, but they were blocked off to some extent by the authorities in charge.

He then saw a police vehicle drive its way through the reporters, and into the premises. A few cops got out of the car, which only made the on-lookers more excited than they already were. They shouted out their questions and inquiries which were ultimately ignored by the cops.

Ned saw another car pass through security. A blue Mustang, he noted, not a police automobile. The door flung open when it came to a sudden stop and a woman stepped out. His subconscious gauge placed her at about mid-twenties. She looked slim and strong, by build, and was probably five-seven, five-eight or so. Her red hair had a shiny, golden tinge against the sunlight and carelessly tumbled past her shoulders.

From the way she walked up to the other cops it was obvious she knew them. She walked, her long legs eating up the ground, with… purpose. Yeah, Ned thought, with purpose. When she and the other officers walked into the lobby, and flashed their respective badges at the receptionist, he saw her adjust a revolver strapped to her jacket.

God, he thought, Redhead was hot.

He could have slapped himself when he realized how inappropriate the thought was at the moment. She was obviously working with the police, was obviously here to interrogate people to find who'd killed Ryder.

But as he turned to go back inside, he couldn't help but wonder if Redhead ever wore a uniform.

It was quite disconcerting.

--

After she'd interrogated around fifteen of the studio employees, Nancy got the impression that practically nobody knew any more about the victim than she did. Everyone she'd spoken to had had pretty much that same thing to say. He'd been the amicable sort, had been devoted to his music, very much on the shy side. He had no known nemeses; maybe professional, but no one heinous enough to kill him. He'd lived his life under the wraps. Unusually under the wraps, was Nancy's opinion. There had to be someone, a friend or _someone_ at work to whom he'd spoken about sports, cars, girls, video games. Whatever the hell men talked about.

But so far, he was squeaky clean.

Nancy walked out of the room she'd been given to question people, and took with her the final autopsy report one of her investigators had dropped off earlier. She rode the elevator down to where Bolton was conducting his interrogations, and waited outside until he'd finished off with a forty- or fifty-something woman. As she walked out she gave Nancy a dazed, blank look. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

"Sally Devon," Bolton said when Nancy walked in. "She pretty much manages the place."

"Looks shaken up."

He shrugged. "She said she'd seen him only last night. It's tough to wake and find that someone you know is dead."

"Any vibes off her?"

"It's too early for vibes but I don't think so. You?"

"The people I spoke too? Nobody knows a damn thing about him. He was just too quiet. I'm not sure if that's just his personality or if he had something to hide." She waited a beat. "So, where's the Queen of Crime?"

Bolton's lips twitched a bit at her term for his aide. "Sent her off to do some odd jobs. How the hell am I supposed to train her?"

"How the hell did she make it on the squad?"

He smiled, but misery showed in his eyes. "Daddy's connections, Nancy. A dangerous thing."

As if on cue, Queen of Crime swaggered into the room, and barely glancing over at Bolton, gave Nancy the once-over for what seemed to be the sixth time since their not-so-joyful reunion. She flipped her long, straight dark hair over her shoulder, and steered her sharp green eyes over to her partner.

"Look, Bolton," she began disdainfully, and eased a hip onto the desk, "if we're gonna be partners, I want in on the major action, not just the crappy job of making stupid telephone calls. "

"Look, Carlton," he replied, matching her tone without missing a beat, "As ranking officer, if I think you're ready for the major action, you get in. And of course, if you want to be partnered with someone else… it wouldn't hurt my feelings."

It was probably small of her, but Nancy considered seeing the colour creep onto Brenda Carlton's face the best part of her day so far. They went back years, when Nancy had solved cases as an amateur detective, and Brenda had stuck her meddling—and probably plastic—nose into business that didn't concern her under the guise of an investigative reporter for a local newspaper.

And when your Daddy happened to own the paper, well, then, that was just a huge plus.

Nancy hated to spoil the fun, but there was a body lying in the morgue that deserved their attention. "The report," she reminded, and lifted up the sheets of paper. "The time of death's been confirmed as one-twenty-one a.m. From what I've found out from co-workers, and security cameras, he left the studio a little after twelve. It would have taken him, I imagine, fifteen minutes to reach home, keeping in mind any traffic that might have existed at the given hour."

"That leaves approximately an hour until the exact time of death," Bolton mused.

"Yeah. The drug's been identified, and with the dose he was given, it would have taken ten minutes to start really working on him. I'm thinking the killer waited until its effects showed to start bashing him around."

"Because there aren't many defensive wounds on him."

"Exactly. His brain was all fuzzy by then, and couldn't focus on fighting back. Except the skin under his nails, there's nothing that tells us he fought back."

"Skin's been tested?" Brenda asked, examining her own nails, and deciding they were in need of a manicure.

"Ongoing," Nancy answered. "They said it could take some time because the sample is… meagre."

"So it took ten minutes for the drug to settle in," Bolton said stretching his legs. "The beating up that ensued would have taken ten minutes. Fifteen, maybe. Not more than that. Add in the initial chit-chat some murderers like to have with their victim prior to killing—and I'm thinking this one did—and it amounts to about half an hour."

Nancy met his eyes. "It was personal."

"Yep. It was personal."

"You're thinking he knew the killer."

He nodded. "I'm thinking he knew the killer. There was no sign of the locks being tampered with. What I don't know is if he was expecting the little visit or not."

"I think—"

Brenda yawned as gracefully as a hippo. "Think, think, think. That's all you seem to be doing, Miss PI. That's one way to cover up your lack of substantial facts, isn't it?" She smirked, satisfied with herself. "Losing touch, are we?"

_You are investigating a murder, _Nancy told herself_, you cannot be the cause of one_. The stupid smirk was still on Brenda's stupid face. _Even if it is justifiable._

"Gee, Brenda, if all this is boring or just goes above your fat head—and yeah, you've gained some pounds since I last saw you—maybe you'd like to return to the crappy telephone calls. You can handle that, can't you? What do you say, Bolton?"

"I agree, Nancy," Bolton said and grinned. The job didn't come without the good parts. "Our girl should be able to handle the phones."

"Ganging up on me, huh? Just because you got kissy-face in high school."

"Ooh, are we talking past relationships? So much fun. We've just got a pesky little detail to deal with first, you know, a murder?" She stood up feeling oddly rejuvenated, and headed for the door. "Bolton, why don't you and your aide start the next round of interrogation. I'll do the same." With a grin and wave at Brenda, she went off.

If slapping at Brenda Carlton made her feel this great, then she'd have to do it more often.

--

Back in the interview room, Nancy readied her notes, files and other material. They'd initially agreed to send in members of the recording label one by one to be questioned by either her or Bolton. But now she thought it would be better for the questioning to be done in everyone's own environment. It would help her get a feel of who they were, how they worked.

The whole musical milieu seemed pretty fun actually.

She worked her way through seven more employees before making it to the production unit. She knocked on the closed door of an office, then entered when she heard a 'come in'.

His eyes were the first thing she noticed. They were a deep, lovely brown, as was his thick, wavy hair. A lock of it fell onto a wonderfully sculpted face, square-jawed, and held a mildly surprised look when their eyes met.

It wasn't a jolt, Nancy told herself. That was stupid. She hadn't felt a jolt.

But she had.

And his mouth was…

Oh sweet God.

"Uh, Nancy Drew," she said and shook his hand when he rose and offered it. Nice hands, she thought. Callused. Whew. "I'm a private investigator, working with the police on the murder of Justin Ryder."

"Yes, please sit down. I'm Ned Nickerson."

What a voice.

_Stop it, stop it, stop it._

"I need to ask you some questions, Mr. Nickerson," she said as she sat down and took out her recorder. "Do you mind if I record this?"

"No, not at all." Grief weighed in his eyes. "Are you close to finding who did this to him?"

"We're actively investigating all possibilities."

"Just a minute," he told her, as he yanked open a drawer, and surprising her, pulled out two humungous chocolate bars. "I tend to eat when I'm stressed. No, actually, I tend to eat all the time."

"No, thanks," she said when he offered her one. "You can… you can actually eat the whole thing at once?"

"Sure I can." He gave her a smile that reached his eyes and produced an adorable little dimple in his cheek.

"What's your position here, Mr. Nickerson?"

"Ned. I'm a producer."

"Did you work with Ryder?"

"We were working on a project just last night." There was grief again. "And yeah, I'd worked with him before."

"The nature of this project?"

"We were recording his second single," he explained. "It was sure to be a huge hit. Have you considered competing labels, Detective?"

His brains worked quickly, she noted. "Nancy. And yes, we are. Were the two of you close?"

Ned shrugged slightly. "We got along really well. Sometimes hung out. He was a good guy. He had very solid professional relationships, and very few personal ones."

"Are you aware of anyone he had an intimate relationship with?"

"Like a girlfriend? I don't know. He never mentioned one."

"What about his family?"

"His father died when he was a kid. It was just him, his mother and older sister. He loved them. That was obvious, Redhead."

"Redhead?"

"Huh?"

"What?"

"Sorry about that," he said, his face turning beet-red. So, so adorable. "Nancy."

His use of her first name gave her another jolt. But back to business. "Did he say anything about expecting company at his house yesterday?"

"No. Sorry again," he said when she looked frustrated. "He just didn't talk personal."

"All right. Thanks for your time, Ned," she said as she got up. "Oh, um… you got a little chocolate right here." She pointed to the left of her own mouth. "No, other side." He was so damn cute. She reached for a tissue in her purse, leaned her face close to his, and rubbed off the sticky smear.

Inches, just inches away from his mouth.

"Well, thanks again," she said, suddenly feeling awfully flustered.

"Nancy?" he said just before she was out the door.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know if it was nice meeting you or not under the circumstances," he said, flashing her another perfect smile, "but it was nice meeting you anyway."

"I guess it was."

As she walked away, her heart was pounding, but she couldn't tell why.


End file.
